


there is beauty in simplicity

by haru_senji



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, there isn't actually that much hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haru_senji/pseuds/haru_senji
Summary: “Can I play?” he asks, eager.“You wouldn’t know classical music even if it slaps you in the face and says Osamu is the better twin, ‘Tsumu.”He lets out an indignant puff of air, pouting, smiling.“I can play, if ya teach me! I’m a fast learner, ya know.”Rain continues drumming on your windows, and you drum your fingers on your thigh as you think (again).“Okay.”You teach him the left hand accompaniment of your song. Perhaps one day you can dance together.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Original Character(s), Miya Atsumu & Original Female Character(s), Miya Atsumu & Reader, Miya Atsumu/Original Character(s), Miya Atsumu/Original Female Character(s), Miya Atsumu/Original Male Character(s), Miya Atsumu/Reader
Kudos: 21





	there is beauty in simplicity

**Author's Note:**

> If I kept this any longer in my drafts I'd end up deleting it so here,, crossposted from Tumblr!

You play the piano when you feel. 

No, not when you feel anything in particular. (Your mouth feels heavy on your face as the corners turn down; you move away from your desk.) Sometimes, you wonder if that disqualifies you as a musician. (Rain starts knocking on the open window, you deny its entry into your room.) You don’t play the piano to empty out your sadness, nor to express your happiness. You don’t have an interesting backstory to tell your friends or your mum’s friends when they clap with too much enthusiasm after you perform with sweaty hands and disappointment. (The tips of your fingers catch the minimal dust on the fallboard.) You just love it, you say. Your fingers touched the white keys - attempted to touch the black ones as well, before your teacher said ‘not yet’ - almost a decade ago. And it stayed there. It stuck to the wood like the opposing poles of a magnet, inseparable. (You lift it up.)

You don’t say that you’re a musician. You say, “I play the piano”. These are not the same. 

You don’t feel anything as you sit down on the stool. Practice time is 5 p.m., no exceptions. Rain curtains the outside world, a flash of lightning makes your heart jump, reminding you that it still takes up space in your chest. Your eyelids feel droopy, and there’s a hollow cave in your heart where blood should be. (Your chest feels heavy all the same.) There’s a crick in your neck, you notice as you flip the music book open. You jerk it to the side and a _crack_ sounds, louder than the thunder that boomed, chasing the lightning. 

_Vivace_ stares at you from the page, the scattered crotchets and dense semiquavers drilling into your soul. The droplets patter with them, trying to perform their own symphony. Wrinkles at the bottom of the page tell the tale of a young girl flipping to this page again and again, every afternoon at 5 p.m. sharp. The third and fourth pages are less crumpled, boasting to anyone who’s willing to look that the girl memorised those pages a mere week into practice. 

You don’t feel anything as you run through the pieces the first time. This is warmup; your fingers move on their own, your mind stays rooted to your body. Your eyes fix on your hands, unseeing. Several times you panic as your brain slips, going blank as they forget the next notes, but your fingers don’t stop, melting naturally into the black and white tiles. Lightning strikes again out of the corner of your eye. Thunder sounds subsequently. You play on, unwavering. 

You…feel a little bit as the notes start to fill out and solidify. You swear they sound orange. Yes, orange, a hint of gold and amber too. You start to sway, your eyes start to close. Your fingers keep moving, and the song keeps playing without a fault. Beneath your eyelids, you see orange hydrangeas and chrysanthemums. 

You play, and play, and play. Your heart gets lighter, and lighter, and lighter. Whatever you are feeling starts to diffuse, from the top of your head, to the tips of your fingers, and into the air. Your pinkies hurt, the skin on the edge peeling off as a commanding chord sounds; the thumb of your left hand burns, having grazed it on the edge of the keys to reach a tile with slight difficulty. Both your hands are shaking when you finish the tune.

You feel like a dancer, though your behind never leaves the stool for two and a half hours. You think that perhaps it is enough that your fingers are dancing. Perhaps part of your body dancing also makes you a dancer, be it your fingers, or your mind.

You don’t realise that you’d been holding your breath until you stop after the nth time, nor do you register the return of your boyfriend. 

“That was nice.” 

You whip around. His blonde hair is illuminated by the ceiling lights as he takes off his shoes.

“Mmm.”

You rest your hands on your lap, and he sits down next to you, smelling of sweat and hard work. (You wonder what you smell like to him. Forlornness, maybe. Or the woody scent your piano has.) 

“I’m home.” His shoulder brushes yours, and he holds his hands out to you.

“Welcome home.” You place your hands in his.

The callouses on both your hands fit like puzzle pieces, and your heart presses its weight on your chest again. You take a sudden breath, from the intense warmth of his hands or the sudden pressure on your chest, you don’t know. 

“Shit, yer hands are freezin’.” He brings them up to his lips, alternating between exhaling, rubbing, and kissing. 

The weights pulling down the corners of your mouth dissolve, and you give him a little smile. 

“Thanks, ‘Tsumu, it’s fine.” You stand to lower the fallboard, but not before laying the cloth over the keyboard, brushing a bit of dust off as you do so. Atsumu stands and waits for you to finish your little routine. You trudge into the kitchen, and by unspoken agreement, you’re both eating instant ramen a few minutes later. 

You wash the dishes after dinner. The chopsticks slip out of your shaking hand. 

“What’s wrong?” his hand is cradling yours in an instant. 

You take it back, pain zigzagging through it, mimicking the lightning outside. “It’s nothing, ‘Tsumu, really.”

He narrows his eyes. “No, it ain’t nothin’. Yer not a clutz. Yer hands are shaking. Are ya hurt?”

You don’t see the colour of his eyes as he grabs your shoulders and turns you around to face him. 

“Yer down that rabbit hole of yers again,” he mutters, rough finger caressing your cheek. 

You blink. His eyes are brown. 

“It’s not a rabbit hole. It’s just…thinking.” 

Thunder claps. 

“Ya think too much,” he grumbles, massaging your hand before stopping when you give a strong wince. You stand there for a while, but you don’t pull your hand back.

“Do you mind if I play again?”

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸ ¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸ ¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫

He sits on the stool next to you, but he doesn’t inconvenience you. Normally it would have, but now, your left hand hurts too much to be able to move. Spasms of pain course through them at random. This doesn’t go unnoticed. Atsumu cups your left hand with his right, careful not to apply too much pressure anywhere. 

“Is it something this time, or nothing?”

Pain runs its laps through your left hand, your right runs its laps on the black and white keys.

“Nothing. Really.”

Your right hand stretches as you reach the chorus, your body jumping a bit as you aim for the climax of the song. It doesn’t feel the same without your left hand, so you stop. 

“Can I play?” he asks, eager.

“You wouldn’t know classical music even if it slaps you in the face and says Osamu is the better twin, ‘Tsumu.”

He lets out an indignant puff of air, pouting, smiling. He cradles your left hand like it’s delicate porcelain. Porcelain doesn’t move, but your hand twitches. He stops. 

“That’s more like ya. And I can play, if ya teach me! I’m a fast learner, ya know.”

Rain continues drumming on your windows, and you drum your fingers on your thigh as you think (again).

“Okay.”

You teach him the left hand accompaniment of your song. Perhaps one day you can dance together.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@haru-senji](https://haru-senji.tumblr.com/)!


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